


Hotel Peoria

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kind of), Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam Winchester, Breathplay, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e09 Croatoan, Episode: s02e10 Hunted, Frottage, Hair-pulling, M/M, Marking, Mild Kink, Mutual Masturbation, Recently Established Wincest, Rimming, Sam Winchester Has Nightmares, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22666942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Fifty-fifty Sam’s having a normal nightmare or seeing some psycho’s psychic shit.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 157





	Hotel Peoria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/gifts).



> Happy birthday, dear [nisaki-chan](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/). You deserve so much more than words, but words are what I got.
> 
> [Crowroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad/pseuds/crowroad). Thank you, forever, for your conversations, questions, and wisdom.
> 
> Blessings to you both.

Dean stares. Ceiling stains. Sodium streetlight leaks between the drapes. Springs screech; Sam groans, mutters and twists. Kicks his bedspread off and Dean sighs. Rubs his eyes. Fifty-fifty Sam’s having a normal nightmare or seeing some psycho’s psychic shit.

“No!” Sam barks but he doesn’t wake.

Normal, then. Dean throws a forearm over his face. Tries to banish the image of Sam’s strong back—bare from his thrashing, sweat-glossed. Gleaming gold streaked sharp where his ass curves into his leg.

“Oh, God,” Sam moans, and a string of syllables.

Dean should go over there. Push Sam’s hair back. Hush and mumble. Tuck him in.

Two days ago, laid low. Demonic rabies and Dad’s last order foul in Dean’s mouth. Sam’s throat closed around Dean’s cockhead. Slobber poured and slicked him.

Sam rumbles.

Dean reels in: planes, trains, and automobiles. Somebody’s shower. Yapping rat-dog, two rooms down. Giggling. Car doors: one, two, three and the trunk. Squalling.

Sam hiccups. Dean dares a peek. Hair dangles, long neck silhouettes as his chest lifts. Pale bruises left with Dean’s teeth.

“Dean, stop!”

Doesn’t shrink his dick. Dean yanks at his balls.

Sam gave him a full cowgirl, up against a dresser with their pants on. Cat-grin spread across spit-shined lips. Dean wrenched. Sam clamped them in a fist, rode them off a cliff. Dean came like the Concorde. Bouncing, slapping, rattling teeth.

“Dean?”

Sam slumped in Dean’s arms. Looked up. Dimples under bangs like he’d never heard of demon smoke.

Jagged. “Are you… jerking off to me while I sleep?”

“No! I was…” Dean called first shower. “ _Jerking_ off, _while_ you slept.” And Sam left. “I’m a grown man, Sam; I have needs.”

Springs screech. Sam whispers giant feet across the carpet. Eyes gleam in the near-black. “I didn’t run out on you.” Scratch-drag, streetlight shaft.

Dean’s cheeks whoosh.

“Ellen gave me up, first chance she got.” Nimble fingers skate his shorts. “I pushed.”

Grip on Sam’s wrist; Dean tumbles him to the empty side. “You pushed.” He’d have painted Gordon’s cabin with his brains, if Sam hadn’t insisted different. Shot every fucker in that town George Romero forgot.

He snatches Sam’s hair. Sam shows throat. Stuttered moan and steaming, slip-stick cotton. Lip-lock to a hotspot.

Sam ripples. “Nothing’s changed.” Kiss like a meteor. Hands under Dean’s jaws. Thumbs rasp and long, lithe fingers curl behind his neck. “You can stop torturing yourself, worrying I’ll think you’re a pervert.”

“Sam—”

“I _know_ you’re a pervert, Dean.” Lips twitch.

“You—” Dean smashes in, licks the smart out of Sam’s mouth. “Why are we still dressed?” Fist in Sam’s waistband.

They’re both damned.

Dean hoists his hips. Shorts elastic catches, rakes, and he’s bare, dribbling on Sam’s shirt. Sam’s ribs work as he worms off the wash-worn v-neck. Hair flops through and drapes his forehead.

Dean finishes stripping. Bullhorns glint off his pecs. Sam leers. Dean takes in his naked chest, tight nipples and hip crests. Lipsmacking. Sam claws, torques and flips them, plants Dean flat and stands. Drops trou like a stripper, hides the goods in shadows, angles. Lashes lead. Sam hands-and-knees it up from the foot of the bed.

Dean butt-walks, backs to the headboard. Sam’s gifts on his chest and between his feet. Tongue traps his bottom lip, feeds it through his teeth.

Coiled muscles. Four-point divots in the mattress. Sam stops, dick in the light.

Dean whistles.

Sam closes. Elbows cage Dean’s head. Flexed neck, salt line, dried nightmare sweat.

“Oh, no.” Dean twitches. “No more pushing.” He pinches Sam’s chin. “You pick the direction, Sammy, but I set the pace.”

Sam’s eyes flash affirmation, sin. “Best be an aggressive pace.” Leaky dick smears Dean’s belly.

“That hot for me already?” Dean hits the bedside lamp. “I’m flattered.” Sam squints. “How about,” Dean spreads, pats in his thigh gap, “you rub one out, right here.”

“You want me to jerk off for you.” Flat.

“For us!” Dean says. “’Cause see, you take care of that first one, then relax while I work magic.”

“Sure of yourself.” Sam gulps.

Dean mouths his collarbone. “I’m Dean Winchester.” Bites down. “Ain’t nothing I can’t take apart.”

Sam hisses.

Dean turns him, shores him up, back snug to Dean’s front. Sam pulls on his dick just like Dean asked. Dean watches. Temple against Sam’s neck. Gold-flecked mirror tiles beside Sam’s bed reflect Sam’s straining. Dean kneads a thigh. Knuckles a hip. Cockhead pops in and out of Sam’s grip. Dean hooks under Sam’s chin, tilts him toward their reflection. Sam stutter-inhales, quakes in Dean’s cradle.

Poor Brady-from-Peoria never stood a chance.

Sam lifts, fucks his fist.

Diamond ring and a blood-drenched mattress.

Eyes close and he chews his lip.

That… Ansem. Telekinetic Max. Hell, even Andy—

Twisting. Dark and hard. Sam’s thumb flicks.

Dean’s not fit to decide when Sam’s crossed a shade of Darkside too far.

Abs scrunch. Sam’s dick slicks up; pace picks up. Vibrating, quick jerking bursts.

But God help anyone else who tries.

Dean clamps Sam’s windpipe. Limbs lock up. Eyes pop up.

Sam choke-yells.

Dean can’t stop him.

Spurting.

Can’t resist him and he can’t protect him.

Tips him. Ass-up, chest to the mattress. Buries his face between Sam’s cheeks. Sam yelps. Dean laps come off his nuts, slobbers it over his hole. Sam sways. Dean licks his jaw numb. Swipes, probes, and swirls. Dean nibbles up around his tailbone, thumbs in his crack. Sam trembles. Moans and wiggles. Tongue tip slips in

Sam spasms.

Dean snakes with a finger. Tickles Sam’s balls, pets his taint. Drags up his crack and taps, tugs Sam’s rim. Dean works in, mouth and fingertip while Sam rocks the mattress under them. Dean eats, fingers, and strokes Sam to the edge again. Dripping dick and gripping ass.

Dean hooks Sam’s hip. Feels in deep, for—

Sam shouts.

“Swing around. Swing around.” Dean pulls out. Guides Sam to ride. Propped on Dean’s chest, knees outside his thighs. Dean lines them up.

Sam swells. Back bends, hips rock down, and Dean holds out maybe four, five strokes inside Sam’s big hand. Nails dig his shoulder. Fresh sweat, Sam’s neck. Dean howls through clenched teeth.

Sam settles, forehead-to-forehead.

“God, Dean,” Sam wheezes.

Chests heave.

Dean clutches Sam’s neck. Tips his chin. Eyes wet. Dean drags him in. Mouths crash, tongues collide. Dean sucks Sam’s air. Tugs his hair. Heartbeats slow and Sam rides, writhes on their aftershocks. Dean murmurs, puffs on Sam’s skin. Pets his back and works a blue bruise back to red.

Sam huffs, gasps and trembles.

Dean tips back, head thumps drywall.

“Don’t,” Sam says.

“What?”

“Get all Dean about this.”

Dean’s throat clicks.

Evening sun angled across their diner booth. Fired Sam’s eyes almost gold. 

Sam’s lips, CPR kiss. “I need you.”

Of course he’s the devil; nothing that pretty ever came to good.

“But I’m still pissed at you.”

“That’s fine.” Dean lets Sam cup his cheeks, taste behind his teeth. “Just… don’t take off again.”

Sam ducks but his shoulders seize.

“Three times the last three days, man; it ain’t…”

Sam glitters up, under his bangs.

“You coulda been jumped by a hillbilly cannibal clan; it _has_ happened.”

Dimples. Eye contact edges into awkward before Sam climbs off. Winces. “Ew.”

They are caked in come. “Yeah,” Dean smirks. “You should go wash up.” Scratches in the mess on Sam’s thigh. “Gimme a nice, clean slate to go again on.”

“Confident.” Sam snatches Dean’s wrist.

Dean licks lips. “You gotta let me take care of you, Sammy.” Heavy look.

“Yeah, Dean.” Sam sighs. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Share this fic on Tumblr](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/190774957545/hotel-peoria) and spread the birthday cheer! *\o/*


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